d. Who
the hell are you anyhow--the captain?"

"Joe Gates, sir."

"Gates--another damned Englishman! How did you ever get aboard here?"

It was the returning LeVere who made explanation before I could reply.

"Manuel brought him on board last night. Picked him up drunk ashore."

Estada's ugly eyes roved from face to face, as though he failed to
fully comprehend.

"Well, does he imagine he is going to be a passenger? Why hasn't he
been taught his place before this? It's about time, LeVere, for this
drunken sailor to be given a lesson to last him for awhile; and, by
God, if you won't do it, I will. Step over here, Gates."

I took the necessary step forward, and faced him, expecting the rabid
tongue lashing, which I rather felt I deserved.

"Now, my man, do you know what this bark is?"

"I think so, sir--Mister LeVere explained that to me."

"Oh, he did? Well, he must have failed to make clear the fact that we
enforce discipline aboard. The next time you neglect to jump at an
order, you are going to taste the cat. You understand me? You speak
Spanish?"

"Yes, sir; I lived two years in Cuba."

"I see; well now, do you happen to have any idea who I am?"

"No, sir--only that you are one of the officers."

"Then I will enforce the information on your mind so that you are not
liable to forget; also the fact that hereafter you are to jump when I
speak. I am the first officer, and in command at present. Pedro Estada
is my name. Now, you damned English whelp, remember that!"

Before I even suspected what was coming, his unexpected action as
swift as the leap of a poised tiger, he struck me fairly between the
eyes with the butt of a pistol, and I went down sprawling onto the
deck. For a moment I seemed, in spite of the viciousness of the blow,
to retain a spark of consciousness, for I knew he kicked me savagely
with his heavy sea boots; I felt the pain, and even heard the words,
and curses, accompanying each brutal stroke.

"You drunken dog! You whelp of a sea wolf! You English cur! Take
that--damn you! And that! You'll not forget me for awhile, That's
it--squirm, I like to see it. When you wake up again, you'll remember
Pedro Estada, How did that feel, you grunting pig? Here, LeVere,
Manuel, throw this sot into the forecastle. Curse you, here is one
more to jog your memory."

The heavy, iron-shod boot landed full in my face, and every sensation
left me as I sank limply back, bloody and unconscious.

CH